


i'll be sitting on top of the world

by urbancate



Series: The OFC Movie Star Series [2]
Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 15:44:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6572122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/urbancate/pseuds/urbancate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So he's a headstrong guy and perhaps I shouldn't listen<br/>There's a million girls wanna be in my position<br/>If he tells me lies I'll suspend my disbelieving<br/>I leave it all behind, I ain't asking for permission</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'll be sitting on top of the world

The sequel is more ridiculous than the first. That is the rule, of course.  
  
The other rule being: There is always a sequel, baby. Because this is Hollywood.  
  
\- - -  
  
Miraculously, or by the sheer dumb luck of not having a name like Angelina, somehow the paps and the tabs and TMZ never found out about it the first time around. Or maybe it just wasn't interesting enough. On-set romances are practically _de-rigueur_ , and therefore sort of boring. Now, if she'd been the nanny or if they'd run off together when filming was over - _that_ would have been a story.  
  
As it was, filming ended and the affair ended and that was that.  
  
A hasty fuck in a closet during the premiere doesn't count.  
  
\- - -  
  
It's a red dress this time, though. Does that make it something _more_ , she wonders. There will be bruises on her hips and scratches on his back, and that's different, so does it count?  
  
The stakes are always higher, the danger more severe. Those are the rules for sequels.  
  
\- - -  
  
Losing her mind and her heart to her leading man, that counted for nothing at all.  
  
No, she just didn't care to keep count or track it back in her mind and check off days on a calendar like a lovesick idiot: _This particular broken heart was worth 5 pounds (lost, her stylist approved) and 97 days of nothing but coffee and smokes and drinks._  
  
\- - -  
  
The location is different, but the blistering heat is the same. Baking down from the sky. Pouring off the long, tall man in the chair next to her.  
  
Everything is the same, really. The awful dialogue, the frenetic director, the long hours of sit-and-wait and keep-your-cool. She slides right back into it like it never ended.  
  
It's all the same.  
  
But there's that rule: the sequel is always more ridiculous.  
  
And so it is.  
  
\- - -  
  
The ending was the beginning was the end, that's what she figured out last time.  
  
Except it never ended, did it. (And 97 days is the conservative estimate.)  
  
He's a great one for conversation, and she could listen to that insouciant Kiwi drawl forever. And that's how it is, but she never remembers a word. Only the hot slide of his body into hers and the sudden feeling of _oh, this is what I've been missing_.  
  
\- - -  
  
What she does remember: Do not expect anything. There is no future, only a now.  
  
How he shocks her out of her lesson-learned cool: "You should come to New Zealand."  
  
"What, and see all the sheep?"  
  
"I'm serious."  
  
"You're never serious."  
  
"I beg to differ." And then he's fucking her hard and serious, proving some kind of point, branding her or some ridiculous macho bullshit like that. And then she starts to believe this idea of his, the radical notion of something beyond the carefully drawn limits of what and where they are.  
  
\- - -  
  
She still smokes, but he doesn't complain about it, just ravages her mouth on a regular basis as if he is as hungry for her as she is for him.  
  
\- - -  
  
It's the tattoo that does it. Not the one he already has, the tiny thing she chooses to ignore - a piece of meanness in herself she doesn't entirely like.  
  
No, it's not that tattoo. It's the new one. Small, because he is oddly elegant sometimes, the big beautiful nerd.  
  
\- - -  
  
It's the red carpet again, and she is dressed to match it and he can't get her alone fast enough, can't seem to stop himself from marking her.  
  
It's such a far cry from the incident in the black dress, she almost cries for all the different reasons.  
  
\- - -  
  
"This won't be any better than last time," she tells him on the first day back. And of course she means _all_ of it.  
  
The part of her that wants to be wrong, she stomps it down and settles in for another ride on this particular addictive train.  
  
He doesn't disagree. Just laughs - with that abandon she envies and admires - and says, "Probably so."  
  
\- - -  
  
It's a flower, the tattoo. A tiny flower. The same as her name.  
  
He shows it to her as she's fixing the red dress and for the life of her she can't decide if she has just been collected and shelved or promised something more.  
  
It's a mark. It's something.


End file.
